


Necessary and Sufficient

by thallo



Category: 80 Days (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Fogg is oblivious, Gen, M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thallo/pseuds/thallo
Summary: Upon a victorious return to London, Passepartout finds himself struggling to readjust to the confines of London domestic life, and to what extent Fogg still relies upon him. His written account, as ever, provides him a place to process these feelings.
Relationships: Phileas Fogg/Jean Passepartout
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Necessary and Sufficient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spring_gloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spring_gloom/gifts).



> Written for Yuletide 2019 for spring_gloom. Beta-read by the charming, insightful, and inimitable G--.

**Day 80:**

The raucous congratulations of Fogg’s fellows trailed behind us all the way to the house on Savile Row. I had sent ahead to the household staff to ensure that all had been arranged just as Fogg prefers. My master ~~(dare I call him my companion?)~~ deserved all the comforts that London could offer, and to which I knew he had longed for, after his ordeal. For myself, I would not call it such; not with such singular people as I had the opportunity to meet. But my master’s temperament is not so expansive as mine.

He remarked approvingly on the strength of the fire, and requested I bring him a volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall. I did so at once, and he remained in the library reading until I came to dress him for bed, at the usual time I knew him to prefer. As I attended to his toilette, I remarked on his choice of reading material, after all we had seen. Fogg looked at me quizzically, and I apologized--remembering that perhaps familiarity cultivated by close proximity may have weakened my sense of what was seemly for a valet to speak of to his master.

“I do not expect you to have passed through such a...unique experience altogether unchanged,” my master said, staring into the fire. “It would be remarkable indeed if you did not dwell on what has passed…” He cleared his throat. 

“Perhaps even you will discover that you have been changed by the experience as well, Master,” I ventured. He looked at me patiently, and perhaps--though it may have been my imagination--slightly sadly.

“Perhaps,” he said, though doubt lingered in his voice.

**Day 81:**

Today I arose early, as ever, and attended to my duties, as ever. Though the house on Savile Row housed far fewer souls than many of the hotels we had passed sweltering nights in, it seemed more crowded, louder, less private. Housemaids, as invisible as they sought to make themselves, intruded on my peace, haunting my steps. I could not begrudge them, however; they maintain the engine of Fogg’s equilibrium and equanimity. And yet…

I wished to be alone. I soon was granted my wish, as Fogg departed after luncheon for his club. I remained behind, pressing his shirts as I recounted our adventures in Quetta and Budapest. The motion of the iron was soothing to my nerves. I could provide him this, if nothing else.

Our world had widened dizzyingly, thrillingly, along this journey, and yet Fogg’s sphere had contracted to me alone, and several other fellow-travelers. But those connections were fleeting, and limited by his famous reserve. Whereas ours…

And just as that dichotomy had emerged, naturally, my conscientious care forming the bulwark of civilization (or so my master might believe) against the physical wear of travel, it ended. Fogg had no need of me--or rather, his practical needs remained exactly the same. But the scope of happiness I could offer him was limited. I could no longer expect to be as cherished, when the attractions of London were once again within his reach.

I thought to venture out along Savile Row and procure another evening jacket to replace the one that had become worn down through sand, grit, water, and weather. But I dismissed this idea almost immediately after it arose. What if Fogg should return and find his shirts unpressed, or his shoes unpolished? What if he should want a shave, or a wax of his moustache? What if he should find me less attendant in London, the very place where he should expect the rhythms of my day to adapt around his, than I had been on rattling locomotives and airships? No. Unthinkable.

I remained in his bedroom, polishing his cufflinks to a gleaming shine. When the chambermaid entered to stoke the fire, I am ashamed to say that I snapped at her. I have perhaps grown too used to being the sole provider of care…

**Day 82:**

The first footman has taken to giving me pitying looks. I am concerned he suspects more of my feelings than I have given anyone any reason to, given some highly inappropriate quips the footman made before Fogg’s wager whisked my master and myself off together. I refused to meet his eyes, and focused on giving the housemaid instructions on the proper laundering of Monsieur Fogg’s shirts. 

Consultation with the tailor could not be put off any longer, and Fogg’s tailor showed me several options that my master might be interested in; tweed, worsted, superfine; all in the dark, traditional tones he favored. I traced my fingers along the fabric, imagining more than I hoped to dare--of not only smoothing the wool beneath my hands, of feeling my master’s thin shoulders beneath the worsted, of brushing my fingers against a silk cravat as I tied it expertly, of fastidiously brushing a piece of dust from his lapel only to find him looking down at me with a mixture of fondness and, dare I dream, desire. The tailor believed me most particular about my choice of fabrics. But the truth is simply that I chose the fabric that gave rise to such dreams. 

To my guilty satisfaction, Monsieur Fogg remained at home this evening. He was supposed to have a friend to dine, but the weather proved too bad for his friend to venture forth. It was nothing we had not endured on rough crossings, and I told my master such. He simply laughed.

“Passepartout,” said he, “the typical English gentleman is not made of such strong stuff as you.” I am grateful that he turned into the dining room after, so he could not see the color rise in my face.

So that the dinner would not go to waste--or so he said--Monsieur Fogg invited me to dine with him. I suspect he has gotten used to taking his meals in different company than his club provides him with, but I know that he would deny any desire to deviate from his well-established routines. Over boiled chops and haricot beans, we discussed our trip across India--Lahore, Benares, Madras--and the three days we had spent in Colombo, waiting for passage to Singapore. 

“I worried for your sake,” I told Fogg, passing him the port again. “The electric trams kept me wide awake, and I feared you would pass the entire stay in discomfort.”

“The city was indeed...busy,” Fogg replied, “though the suite you procured was suitable.” High praise indeed from my recalcitrant master! Did I glimpse a touch of nostalgia in his expression, or were the candles simply guttering?

“I hope I mitigated such external circumstances as they occurred,” I replied, uncharacteristically forward, suddenly longing for praise, for some sign that my care, my occasional recklessness in placing his safety before my own, had meant something--anything at all. Fogg’s only response was a subtle inclination of his head in the affirmative. It was not nearly enough to satisfy the burning, fierce longing I felt to be measured by that cool gaze and find myself not wanting but wanted. I wished to be both necessary and sufficient to his happiness.

“Did you mean,” I said, gathering up my courage, “what you said? About another voyage around the world being out of the question?” The inquiry was burdened with my own desires--to break from this routine of London after only several days back, to be once again his main and most important surety against the perils of the world outside his door.

“I do not know,” he replied, placing his napkin back upon the table, and rising. “I am not inclined to depart from the comforts to which I have so recently been restored. It is possible...”

Once I had tended to all of his evening needs, I found myself alone in my room, listening to the cold rain lash the windows of the house. I thought of my conversation with Falguni on the way to Benares--or rather, the silences left between us, the mutual understanding cobbled together through them. Questions asked and unanswered, and through those deliberate lacunae, revealed. 

**Day 83:**

I do not know what evil I have committed during our circumnavigation--mislaying a coat? Dropping a train schedule?--to deserve what has been visited upon me today. Fogg returned to the house with one of the very Reform Club members with whom he had made the original wager.

“Dumb luck,” he was saying loftily as the door shut behind them. “You wouldn’t have managed it without the wind breaking in your favor. And that servant of yours; I’m sure he bribed your way through Europe. Why you trust a Frenchman…” From my spot behind the parlor’s open door, my blood began to boil.

Fogg cleared his throat. “He has been useful to the endeavor, certainly.” His voice was even, but from long knowledge of my master’s moods I could detect the irritation hidden beneath. “As for his nationality, it has not hindered his service.”

Fogg’s so-called friend harrumphed. “If you say so.” I longed to reveal myself, but knew that my master would not look kindly on my intrusion into the conversation.

“You’ve come to see the Balkan dagger I obtained in Istanbul,” my master continued. “Through here, into the library.” Their voices receded down the hall.

It stung, to hear our singular experiences reduced to objects which could be passed around Fogg’s so-called friends--men of whom I long wanted to believe the best, but in whose expressions upon Fogg’s return I saw envy and disappointment. Surely such a man could not conceive of the Artificer nuns of Madras--nor would I tell him. But would Fogg? I had not mentioned the experience to him, for fear that he would reprimand me for taking so little care with my safety.

(Was it fear that he would reprimand me for not taking more care with my safety? Or fear that he would not? If my person did not matter to him, I then felt, better not to know.)

I was still lost in thought when Fogg entered the parlour. It could have been five minutes, or upwards of a quarter of an hour.

“Passepartout,” he said, raising an eyebrow. I jumped. “I require your assistance in sorting through our accumulated possessions from our travels.”

I assented, of course, with a blush at my own oversight, and soon I was arranging the precious objects we had acquired by continent on the mantle. Fogg held up a piece of stained glass to the light, and suddenly his face was bathed in brilliant reds and golds. My breath caught in my throat, and I was suddenly overcome with the urge to praise his beauty.

“Monsieur,” I started, before I could hold my tongue. Fogg turned towards me with a questioning look.

“I…” I could not say what I had been moved to speak only seconds before. “I wish you would not let such a man into your house.” 

Fogg’s mouth quirked up infinitesimally. 

“Really, Passepartout,” he chided me gently. “He is a gentleman, no matter your feelings on him, and must be treated with respect.”

 _Then he ought to act like a gentleman,_ I thought stubbornly. _He ought to be more like you, if I am to respect him._

Instead, I nodded. But before Fogg could turn back to his newly-acquired collection, more words, just as unplanned, slipped from my lips. 

“But do you enjoy his company?”

Now Fogg’s eyes were firmly fixed on mine. I had the uncomfortable sensation that we were rapidly moving into questions that held two double meanings within themselves, and each one dangerous.

“Do I enjoy his company.” In Fogg’s mouth, it was a statement. “In what way do you mean?”

I had imagined that my question was in reference to the other man’s conversational habits, but had I let my own intentions slip out? Monsieur Fogg could not intend the _other_ meaning of that, could he? Surely my master, who has never seemed interested in any of the more tender pleasures, could not be seriously thinking about...that man, of all men!

“Would you choose him as a companion?” If my master was indeed speaking double, as I was, then he could choose whether to address my secondary meaning or stay silent on the matter entirely.

My master paused for a long time. I waited, resigned to whatever fate might choose.

“I would not,” he said simply.

I let out a long exhale, though as I did, I could not help but think how improper this line of questioning had been. Was continuing to be.

“Forgive me, Monsieur Fogg, this is not--”

But he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“Why such a keen interest in my associates?” His gaze was as closed-off as ever. I could sense an interest there, and though I feared it was not an interest in myself, but only an interest in the reason for my odd behavior, I pressed on. 

“If you will permit me, sir…” I trailed off, knowing what I was about to say was highly irregular, and wanting Fogg’s permission, of a sort, before I began on my own perilous expedition. He nodded.

“He may be a gentleman in name, but he has not behaved well towards you. He did not believe that you would win your wager, and was disappointed when you did. He has no great spirit.”

To my amazement, my master laughed.

“You are strongly spoken, Passepartout, upon this subject!”

“I want only the best for you,” I murmured, an unmistakable blush creeping into my cheeks. Fogg said nothing, only looked away and shifted in his chair. I felt a desperate need descend upon me, and could do nothing but continue speaking.

“I have tended to you on harsh voyages. I smuggled us out of Chittagong when it burned. I have done all this from the pure obligation that a good valet owes to his master, yes, of course--but I am also devoted to the singular man that you are.” I took a deep breath; the words poured from my mouth as though I had no control over them. “I have come to care for you in a deeper way than the bond of valet and master requires. I would have given my life, and would give my life again, to ensure your safety. You know my inclinations are--open... and curious. You are a well-educated man. I have not forgotten Thessaloniki, and that you are versed in the Greeks. You must have guessed the depths of my feelings for you.”

A long silence fell. I reached for the small coral sphere and began to polish it, looking anywhere but at Fogg.

“I...had not.” His voice was strained, curious, and--embarrassed? I snuck a glimpse at his face. He stared at me as though undergoing a profound revelation.

He cleared his throat. “I believe I have, on occasion, remarked that you are the most singular specimen of valet I have ever encountered.” I looked at him, barely daring to breathe. This sort of praise from him after such an admission...

“You have,” I prompted gently, no longer content with Fogg’s omissions. I wanted to hear the most tempered of praise, and know within my heart that it was, in Fogg’s own way, a similar confession.

“Perhaps I am not as convinced as before of the imprudence of another such journey, if undertaken with the right companion.”


End file.
